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| The
Reverend's Eyes |
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Who's
that sitting on that bench, and why are they
Doing that? Let me press my thumb upon her forehead
So that she will remember. Is that his tongue?
I know her name. It's not Denise. It's Cruelty.
It is hopelessly old. And he is too. I call him Marion.
Don't they know how cold the bench of comfort
Can become beneath the elms? The white tennis shoes
Are cut, though the toe fit snugly in them now.
Late she will walk by me and stare through me.
I will stare through her. The veils will lay behind us both,
Grinning all and blown across the grass. She'll pretend
To walk ahead. But on That Day, we will all be back.
We'll have something to say. And the dust
Will lay upon the lips and turn to Black.
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